Page 67 of Boiling Point
There was no censure in it—only relief. But guilt coiled tighter around my chest, pressing against everything I wasn’t saying. Everything I couldn’t say.
I mumbled something noncommittal and promised to call her later.
After I hung up, the silence returned—heavier now, threaded through with things I didn’t have the courage to voice.
Later, in bed, I lay staring at the ceiling, the sheets cool against my skin and far too much space on either side of me.
My phone buzzed—sudden in the stillness.
I miss you already.
That tightness in my chest unfurled just a bit. Sweet. Dangerous. All want. I typed before I could stop myself:
It’s too quiet here. Can’t sleep.
His reply came almost instantly:
Neither can I. My bed’s empty, and I don’t like it.
A smile tugged at my lips despite the ache in my chest.
Maybe you should’ve kept me.
Don’t think I wasn’t tempted.
I smiled, imagining how he’d say it—half-sarcastic, half-serious.
What stopped you?
Your future. Your physics grade. My job. Take your pick.
Terrible excuses.
Terribly noble, thank you.
I shifted beneath the covers, the phone warm in my hand, heat curling low in my belly.
What would you have done if I’d asked to stay?
There was a pause. A longer one this time.
Locked the door. Hidden your backpack. Called it an act of God.
Might need to test that theory sometime…
Careful, Gabrielle. I’m still very awake. And very imaginative.
My cheeks flushed. My thumb hovered for a second, the playfulness thinning just enough for something more honest to slip through.
I didn’t think I’d feel it this much.
Another pause.
I know. I feel it too.
My throat tightened.
What do we do now?
